“I don’t know, actually.” Mom and Lindsey disappear into the kitchen and I turn toward him. “I was ten the last time I was here.” He sets my carry-on next to Mom’s large suitcase and closes the front door. Lindsey is right. There is no denying he’s a big, handsome man, but I’ve dated a lot of handsome men. Handsome men are vain and have entitlement issues. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ll admit that I haven’t quite gotten over my “men are assholes” phase since Tony.
“I’m Lou Ann Hunter.” I stick out my hand toward him. “Remind me of your name again?”
His gaze rests on my forehead and I think he’s going to ask about the red mark the size of a silver dollar above my left brow. “Simon Broussard,” he says, and gives my hand one quick shake before dropping it.
I’m still waiting for him to explain why he is in my mother’s house.
“I’m going to assume you want Ms. Patricia in Jasper’s room. We turned the front parlor into Jasper’s bedroom about six years ago when the stair railing got too loose.”
Of course it’s too loose. I look at the grand staircase curving downward against the wall, with its intricately carved balusters and railing. It doesn’t look as big and ominous as it did when I was a kid. “Mom sometimes wanders at night.” I have her alarm mats, but I think I’ll need several more just to be safe, and I put them on my mental to-buy list.
He points to the wall of wood paneling on this side of the stairs. “We converted the trunk closet under the stairs into a bathroom.”
“We?”
“I.”
“Are you a handyman?”
He chuckles. “Among other things.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, I give up and point to Mother’s big suitcase. “That’s hers.” Boxes of her things are also stacked in the kitchen, but Lindsey and I can go through those later.
Simon picks up the large bag instead of lifting the handle and wheeling it down the hall like a normal person. His muscles flex, and I’m glad Mom and Lindsey aren’t here to fawn and coo or break out in prayer. “I thought you said front parlor.”
“I did.”
I point to the green room on my right. “The front parlor is at the front of the house.”
“You’re right.”
He’s obviously confused about the front and back of the house—not that it really matters. I follow him. The door handles are lower than normal, and he has to bend down to turn the knobs. Across the threshold, he flips a switch and an old crystal chandelier spreads weak light across the room. From what I can see, about half the bulbs are burned out. The walls are red, which makes the room creepy and drab at the same time. This won’t do for Mother. “Do you know if there are replacement bulbs around here?”
“The bulbs don’t need to be replaced.” He drops the suitcase on a wrought-iron bed shoved up against one wall and covered by a patchwork quilt. “They just need to be screwed back in.” The heels of his boots thud across the polished wood as he moves to a floor-to-ceiling window and pushes open the red drapes. Sunlight pours over him, and with his hands clutching the heavy drapes like that, he looks like he’s being crucified. The image fits with Lindsey’s religious experience.
“Why are the bulbs unscrewed?” I sit on the bed next to my mother’s suitcase.
“Respect.” He drops his hands and turns to face me. “It’s more peaceful without all that light.”
“Was Great-uncle Jasper a vampire?” He doesn’t laugh but I crack myself up.
“The bulbs should still work,” he says, as if he didn’t hear my funny little joke. “No one’s been in here since Jasper’s wake.”
I stop mid-chuckle and squint my eyes. “His wake was in this house?” Sure, it took place six months ago, but it’s still disturbing.
“Funeral too.” He points to the bed. “We laid poor old Jasper out right where you’re sittin’.”
“What?” I jump up like someone lit my tail on fire. Now he laughs, a great big shout of laught
er.
“He was ninety-seven, and we couldn’t lay him out in the front parlor on account of him looking like death.” He laughs even harder, and his accent gets thicker. “And scarin’ young’uns.”
“Who does that?” It’s a rhetorical question, and I glance at the bed as if I might see Jasper still lying there. “Haven’t you people heard of mortuaries?”
“You’re white like you’ve seen the rougarou.”
I don’t know what that means, but I’m going to take a wild guess that it’s not a compliment.